


Hands

by BeganAtKansas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Codependent Winchesters, Emotionally Hurt Sam, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Mention of major character death, Protective Sam Winchester, Reassuring Dean Winchester, Sam panics just a bit, Sam-Centric, Tread Carefully, Worried Sam Winchester, ignoring season 12, minor description of gore, spoilers though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-20 01:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10652028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeganAtKansas/pseuds/BeganAtKansas
Summary: It's always been a certain way for Sam.There would always be that one thing someone would recognize, no matter what state they were in.To Sam, it's always been Dean's hands.





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, okay, author here. Quick note, I am greatly salty (peeved) at Season 12 and the whole spiel with Mary being back and the BMOL (I will literally type you pages and pages of my anger and salt and just how upset I am over Season 12. I will gladly write you a paper or an essay easily.), that we're totally just going to ignore them! Sam never got kidnapped, Mary never came back to life, and this takes place a few weeks after Dean and Cas returned to the bunker after Sam believed that Dean died, only for them to reunite. Unbeta'd and unedited, sort of. Pardon my typos. ^^' Enjoy!

Sam was panicking. His mind was telling him that it wasn't much, that it wasn't a big deal, everything would be alright after Dean cleaned up a bit, but god, his heart was hammering against his rib cage, and it felt like something was squeezing his chest so hard that he couldn't breathe.

A soft and strained groan that was obviously forced through grit teeth sent Sam's gaze flickering over to Dean, his hands tightening on the Impala's steering wheel even more in a white knuckled grip. His foot pressed down on the accelerator a bit more, and honestly, he was praising the lord that it was really late into the night, he didn't know what the speed limit was, but he was sure he was going way over it, but he didn't care, he didn't—blood, so much blood, hands desperately trying to staunch a wound's bleeding, a vivid red that contrasted against the pasty white—"Sam!" At his name, the younger Winchester jerked out of his thoughts, the voice that he would always trust and always hear snapping him out of his panic-stricken state.

"Pull over." Sam blinked, blanching at the very thought. They needed to head somewhere safe, somewhere so that they could stop Dean from bleeding out, from dying, from disappearing again—"Sam, I said pull over!"—and suddenly, he was doing just that, breaking as he turned the steering wheel, letting the car slow to a gentle stop on the shoulder in the road. He was almost too afraid to turn his head to look at his older brother, but it turned out that it wasn't up for him to decide, because Dean's voice filtered in once again. "Sammy, hey, look at me." The younger dragged his gaze from staring unseeingly at his lap to Dean, trying to keep his gaze away from the blood-soaked and torn shirt that Dean had his hand over, and before he could panic again, Dean interrupted, his voice soft but reassuring this time.

"It's going to be okay. It's just a couple scratches, it'll look better after it's cleaned up. Ease up on the accelerator, Sammy. Calm down." Sam swallowed, his dark eyes locking with Dean's green ones, who only held his gaze steadily, open and at ease under the intensity of Sam's gaze which had the power to make anyone uncomfortable; even a war veteran, as Sam had found out a couple weeks ago. The older Winchester only returned the look, even smiling slightly, although the lighting was illuminating Dean's skin an unhealthy and sallow color. He gave a nod, and suddenly, Sam sucked in a breath—he hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath—and it felt as if he was breathing for the first time ever since his older brother had been jumped by the werewolf they'd been hunting, filling his lungs with the much needed air, then breathing out, seeming to release just a bit of the panic he was holding tight onto.

"There we go." Dean sighed as well, before he grimaced, glancing down at his hands. "I would pat you on the shoulder or something, but I'm a bit blood-covered at the moment." The green-eyed male chuckled, and a flicker of irritation coursed through Sam, although it disappeared as soon as it had appeared.

"That's not funny, Dean." He rasped out, speaking for the first time since the initial attack, his voice hoarse and so quiet that it was almost a whisper, but still, it was progress.

"Yeah, yeah, okay. Come on. Let's get going." Sam nodded without a word, and turned back, hands gripping the steering wheel again, turning the Impala back to the road, although he kept to the speed limit this time, pointed towards the closest motel.

When they arrived, Sam went in to get them a room, then raced outside back to the Impala to help Dean out of the car, not that he got very far, seeing as the older smacked him away, rolling his eyes. "I'm not an invalid just cause I got scratched up, Sammy. Quit babyin' me." He'd grunted, climbing out of the car stubbornly by himself, straightening painstakingly slow, and although his skin grew unnaturally pale, his face was impassive, the perfect poker face, pulling his jacket around himself, walking in a brisk pace that if Sam hadn't seen the injury and all the blood himself, he would have believed that Dean was fine. The younger chased after him, hovering, tense, ready to catch Dean if he swayed or tripped or fell. The person behind the counter didn't even bat an eye to the two of them sliding in through the door, and they made it to the room Sam had gotten for them without arousing suspicion. Sam slotted the key into the lock, twisting to get it open and pushed it open, and it was only then when Dean slumped, expression contorting a bit as he stumbled into the room, swaying as if he was barely standing on his feet.

"Dean, hey." Sam called, catching the older by the elbow, and this time, Dean leaned into the younger without much protest, letting him pull him toward a chair in the room. Sam was gone in the next instant, getting a cup of warm water mixed with a tablespoon of salt, a clean rag, some bandages, a needle, and some thread made of catgut. He padded back, and Dean had already shed his shirt and his jacket, using the said shirt to clean what he could. "Bleeding's stopped. Just a flesh wound." Dean looked up at Sam, leaning back against the chair, his eyes closing as he let his head rest on the back of the chair, eyes closing. The younger let out another soft breath, nodding, heading closer to take a look at the wound himself. The werewolf's claws had only slashed across skin, luckily not slicing through the muscle, thus requiring only one set of sutures. "We have any whiskey?" The older looked up briefly to ask, and Sam shook his head, biting his lip. "Course we don't." Dean sighed, before he leaned his head back again. "This is going to hurt..." Sam warned softly, and the older gave a snort, opening one eye to look at Sam with a wry smile.

"When hasn't it hurt?" He asked, almost lazily in the manner, and the younger couldn't help but give a tight-lipped smile at the quip, before he ducked his head, intent on his task. The ebb of panic that had been suppressed grew even fainter as he focused on steadying his hands, cleaning the injury with salt water (that earned him a hiss and a curse or two), before he started to suture the wound shut. Dean only gave a grunt before lapsing into silence, only the sound of their breathing filling the silence, and soon, Sam finished stitching the skin together, tying it into a knot, leaning in to nip at the string, cutting it close to Dean's skin. He spilled some of the water onto the clean rag, sweeping it gently over the tender area, cleaning up all the blood off while disinfecting the wound as well, then put a clean bandage over the stitches. Dean was still through the whole process, only shifting occasionally to help the younger finish everything up, which was a marvel, because Dean was usually stubborn and pushed the younger's hands away after the sutures, grumbling about how Sam didn't need to fuss about him so much.

Sam could feel the older's eyes on him the whole time he worked, which he soon finished and got up, disposing of the rest of the water and the rag, washing his hands in the bathroom, cleaning himself up before he came out. Once again, wordlessly, Dean got up gingerly, before he walked across the room into the bathroom as well, before the sound of running water met Sam's ears. The younger sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands, and it wasn't long before his initial panic started to rise again. He closed his eyes, although images kept flashing across his vision. He was usually calm by now, having confirmed that it was nothing major and that Dean would be okay, but wounds were still tender from everything that had happened. Sam had lost Dean one too many times, and he wasn't sure if he could cope with another. They were tentatively getting to their feet after the most recent events, including Dean dying or almost dying multiple times, becoming a demon, becoming a damn live _bomb_ in hopes of defeating Amara, and Sam had thought that he'd lost his brother to the world again, and this time, permanently. It had been blissfully untrue, and they'd spent a few weeks getting back onto their feet, being ridiculously domestic. However, Sam's nerves were still frayed to Hell and back, and just the thought of being on his own again without his brother were nightmare-like.

But when was the next time that the world would decide they needed to suffer more? When was the next time that the world would try to separate them once again, or drive a wedge between them because of the life they led? _Blood. Blood covered hands, gaping wounds, so much blood, too hasty goodbyes, watching as his brother went on a blatant suicide mission, Dean's hands, his hands on his cheek, on his lips, in his hair, holding his, soothing, loving, oddly gentle hands, suddenly gone, slowly fading away and disappearing from his life-_ "Sammy?" Sam jerked in surprise, his head snapping up to see his brother right in front of him, not even a foot away, looking at him intently. The younger met his gaze, licking his dry lips, trying to muster up his voice in order to answer. When he opened his mouth to speak, Dean raised a finger and pressed it to his lips, silencing him, and Sam obliged, mouth closing as Dean held their gazes for a moment longer, seemingly searching for something. Dean didn't seem to like what he found, although his expression did grow softer, sighing.

"Baby boy..." Sam waited, expecting to be told that he was overreacting, but Dean didn't go any further than call him by his nickname that was only used when it was just the two of them, and after another soft sigh, the younger suddenly felt fingers rubbing and petting his scalp, running through his hair, smoothing it down after ruffling it. Sam shuddered, the tension he didn't know was in him bleeding out from his shoulders, slumping into Dean, although he did so gently, gingerly avoiding the stitches he knew were under Dean's new shirt, burying his face into the cloth, inhaling the scent of Dean, his own arms rising to wound around Dean's waist, holding him, feeling the hands that Sam had always adored running through his hair. "It's okay. I'm here. I'm not that easy, and I'll always fight my way back to you." Dean murmured softly suddenly, and the younger had to blink away the sudden heat he felt in his eyes, swallowing thickly over the lump in his throat. He closed his eyes, only nodding to Dean's words. They stayed like that for a while, before Dean settled his hand on the nape of Sam's neck, gently patting.

"C'mon, Sammy. Let's go to bed early. We can grab some breakfast tomorrow." The green-eyed male encouraged, and the younger Winchester moved, stooping down to remove his shoes and socks like Dean, stripping off his jeans and his shirt, ending up only in a pair of boxers as he joined Dean in bed, curling up against him in the sheets. After a pause, Sam reached out to take Dean's hand in both of his, and he could practically feel Dean's surprise, but the older Winchester said nothing, letting Sam hold onto his hand, his eyes focused intently on Sam, watching and waiting. Dean had always known him so well, even better than Sam himself sometimes, and now was definitely one of those moments. He seemed to sense that Sam had something to say, something that Sam was having trouble wording, despite his usual eloquent self.

Sam was quiet, trying to work through his thoughts, although it was too crowded and confusing to make much progress, and his brows furrowed from frustration and concentration, although soon, Dean reached up to smooth the thumb over Sam's brows, as if silently telling him to relax, and just the smallest contact from Dean seemed to let the missing puzzle pieces fall into place. "I've always loved your hands." The younger blurted out, and his brother blinked, half-confused and half-amused. He raised a brow, saying nothing as he looked to Sam for an explanation. After a bit more, Sam gave up on trying to work things into an eloquent sort of speech, choosing to ramble instead, letting the things that popped up first in his mind spill out of his mouth. Dean had always somehow managed to know what he was trying to say even if he made no sense to anyone else, and it was vice versa with Dean as well.

"I just... The earliest memory I have is- is trying to play patty-cake with you." Sam admitted quietly, and Dean let out a soft laugh, full of affection and fondness.

"I remember that..." Dean breathed out, his eyes growing a bit distant, recalling the memory. "You only giggled and kept trying to hold onto my hands instead of playing along with the game." He mused, shaking his head with another soft laugh, eyes returning to Sam's, his eyes a warm, smoldering, and shining green. "...You said you loved me. In the cutest voice too. _'Wub De.'_ For the first time. I don't even know where you learned that, or how you even understood the concept..." He mused, his voice trailing off to a soft whisper, and the younger Winchester huffed softly while flushing a little, flicking Dean's nose.

"I'm trying to say something here, stop reminiscing.." He grumbled, and Dean chuckled, nodding, motioning for Sam to continue. The younger took another moment to collect his thoughts, before he spoke softly again. "Your hands... They've always been a constant for me. You were always there, always ruffling my hair, always taking care of scrapes and injuries, always holding my hand when I was younger to drop me off at school, always slinging your arm around my shoulders when we got older, and as much as it annoyed me, pinching my cheeks, or teaching me how to clean and strip a gun, how to hold one, how to shoot one, how to work a knife and a whetstone..." Sam trailed off after a moment, before he continued. "Always a constant... Trying to keep Dad off my back, pushing me behind you even when I was taller than you whenever Dad yelled, or standing in front of me, or when you were telling me it was okay after a hunt, and even now..." He swallowed, realizing he'd been staring at a point just over Dean's shoulder, turning his eyes back to Dean's, who had grown startlingly silent and serious, full attention on Sam.

"Your hands were my safe haven. You're my safe haven, my home. Hell, you were the only constant in my life, and you still continue to be, no matter what. I've lost you too many times to count now, and I can't... I can't cope with you being gone again, I just can't." Sam finally spat out, shaking his head, burrowing himself into Dean, suddenly the vulnerable younger brother, looking for his older brother's reassurance all over again. "I can't." He whispered, and just as he suspected, Dean's familiar and calloused hand reached over to cup Sam's face, tilting it up to bring it level with the older's.

Sam's heart ached. The hand that had helped him through the time when Lucifer had been in his head and he was seeing things, the hand that had picked him up and pieced him back together countless times. Dean smiled softly, and he leaned in to press their lips together. The younger let out a soft choked sound before he surged forward, returning the kiss, and as gentle and chaste as it was, it spoke volumes in intimacy. Dean drew away to press another soft kiss to Sam's forehead, who leaned into the kiss with closes eyes, drawing in a shaky breath.

"It's okay. I'm here. It's alright, baby boy. We'll be okay. It's been a long day. We're safe now, and it's going to be okay. Hush now, and go to sleep. I promise, I'll be here." The older Winchester murmured, his hand reaching over to brush a strand of Sam's hair from his face, running through them again soothingly. "Sleep." He urged again, his voice quiet, and Sam closed his eyes, letting the familiar sensation of Dean's hand smoothing over his hair lull him to sleep.

There was one thing that Sam would always recognize no matter what.

His constant.

His hands.

His Dean.


End file.
